Short Stories
by moray
Summary: A collection of Havoc shorts, based on requests. Romantic in nature, anyone with a dislike of slash should skip it. No relation to the drabblefics.
1. Stress

Jean Havoc had been looking stressed recently. Cain Fury didn't bother to ask. It wasn't something that a soldier could ask another; it was the 'old soldier's disease', which Fury had managed to escape rather lightly from. Working in Communications had its perks. Quite a lot of them really...

But really, he admired the way that Havoc could just wave away his own troubles and laugh someone else back into shape. He was also pretty sure that the tall blonde wasn't even aware of it.

_He should have been a stand-up comedian_, he thought dourly, glaring at a recalcitrant typewriter. _At least then he would have been a little bit healthier_...

A heavy, calloused hand dropped on top of his head. "You're worrying. What have I told you about that?"

Automatically, he reached up to grab the arm. "Oi, oi, oi!" he protested. "You're distracting me!"

"From a dead typewriter? Honestly, Fury, you'd be better off burying that thing and playing 'Taps' on a kazoo."

Despite himself, he grinned. "A kazoo?"

"Sure! It's the only musical thingamajig that I can play, and if I can play it, so can you."

"A funeral?"

"After so many years of devoted service, it requires a –"

He elbowed the taller man in the stomach. "Quit yammering, you."

"Ow! I'm not yammering. Actually, I'm kinda here on business. I know, I know, me and business don't belong in the same sentence, let alone the same room."

"Well?" He'd better get this through, otherwise something irreversible to his pride was going to happen.

The blonde jerked his thumb back. "Mustang wants you. No clue why."

"Did he... er... look unhappy?"

Pretty blue eyes (pretty? how the hell could such a feminine thought be attached to something so enticingly... _masculine_?) brightened. "Nope. In fact, he looked absolutely _foul_."

"And how is this supposed to help me?" he asked, trying to pry the 'j' key off the board.

Havoc scratched that unruly thatch of straw that he insisted on calling 'hair'. "Well, he's not mad at you, if that's what you're worrying about. Elric just left the office when I got my orders to drag you in. Understandably, he's a bit... snippy."

"_That_ is the understatement of the day."

"Damn. I was trying for the 'Understatement of the Year' award."

The 'j' key popped off and he threw it at the taller man. "Go away. Tell Mustang I'll be there when I get there."

"Something in your water today, Cain? You're unnaturally fiery."

_Ohshitohshitohshit..._ "Um." _Way to go, Cain. Scare off your crush, whydoncha_!

"Cain?" Calloused fingertips hooked and tugged his hands away from his mouth. "You feeling okay?"

_Is blue the color of worry_? he thought dreamily. _So pretty..._

"... Cain?"

"I'm fine!" he squawked, blushing bright red. "I swear!"

Jean looked a little skeptical at that. "Uh-huh. Did you catch some weird parakeet flu?"

"Parakeets don't transmit the flu virus."

"If you say so."

"I do say so," he said firmly. "Now, scat. I have to go talk to the Colonel."

Jean saluted and slouched out the door. "Gotcha. I'll go tell him that you'll be a little slow..."

"Gah! Don't do that!" Cain grabbed his jacket and shot out after the taller man, shoving his arms into stiff blue wool.

"Right-oh."

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Dedicated to Spades 44. Because her Jean/Cain drabbles rock. And she asked. Sorry for not doing 'cute widdle Cain.' I figured that if he was in the military, he's got to be strong underneath. Jean can probably outfight him, but he's definitely the sanest of the bunch.

... 'course, that ain't saying much.


	2. Keep

"Gah. Have I ever mentioned how much I hate arrays?"

"Just because you're a genius doesn't mean that you can't debase yourself with a little bit of good, old-fashioned elbow grease."

Ed twitched at that. It was such a Mustang-esque comment, but it was ten times worse when someone else said it. That someone being Jean Havoc. "Put out that stupid cigarette," was the only thing that he could come back with.

"No. If you can gripe about arrays, I can smoke."

"It's not healthy," Ed creaked to his feet, wincing at his sore knee and sorer back. "Oooh, I hope you had the sense to bring some painkillers with you."

Jean tossed him the bottle. "What's not healthy is you taking the amount of painkillers you do."

"Twelve at a time isn't that bad." He swallowed the capsules dry. "At least I'm not chain-smoking."

"I don't chain-smoke," Jean said mildly. "I go through about a pack a week. If you're going to nitpick about it, I can leave."

_Shit!_ "I'm not nitpicking," Ed said, slightly desperate and hoping that older blonde didn't notice. "I'm commenting. And you really wouldn't leave over something that stupid?"

"I've been kicked out for less, you know," the man pointed out wryly. "'Course, it _would_ be embarrassing to be kicked out of my own house."

"You're not going anywhere," he said firmly, wobbling over and doing a calculated (no, really!) collapse against the bigger man. "You're going to stay right here. I'm going to keep you right here, come hell or high water. If I have to put a goddamn _dogcollar_ on you, I will."

"... I feel loved."

"You should." He nuzzled his face into Jean's middle. All griping aside, Ed liked the semi-dizzy feeling of the mixed smells of cigarette smoke and natural musk that defined Jean. He just didn't like the thick, choking smoke, and he didn't like the thought that Jean could die from all the ick-stuff in the cigarettes. "You're mine, and I don't mind advertising that fact." He reached up to pluck the cigarette away from Jean's lips. "After dinner, could you help me with something?"

"What?"

"Don't sound so guarded. It's just research."

"Kid –" Jean was the only one that could call him 'kid' and live afterwards – "last time you said that, I was knocked out for a _week_."

He looked innocently up into guarded blue eyes, smiling sweetly. "Jean... I promise this won't be like last time. Al's out-of-town, and you're off tomorrow... come on, it'll be fun..."

If anything, that just made the gorgeous blue eyes close off even more. "Define 'research'."

He hooked the cheap steel dogtags out from under Jean's shirt. Playing with them, he purred, "Not _alchemy_ research, per se... more like... oh... scientific research?" Jean's eyebrows lifted. Finding the sight absolutely adorable, Ed tugged lightly on the tags to bring the taller blonde down to his level. "Purely harmless, I promise."

Jean's eyes rolled. "Kid..."

"M'mm... I could just give a demonstration of how purely harmless it is..." His tongue ran over Jean's lips, demanding attention. "Second thought, let's skip supper and just make a night of it, h'm?"

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

For kaori-desu. Because she asked, and asking is love.

Seriously, I will write any JeanxAnybody fics that reviewers request. Within reason of course. If no one suggests anything (I'm not limited to the military group, y'know!) I will start writing crack pairings. And as amusing as that might be, I _don't_ want to do that, because I'll end up with something embarrassing like Jean/Kimbley, Jean/Hoenhiem, Jean/Greed, or something stupid like that. So, please, preserve my sanity, and request! You can even request scenarios!

Oh, random note: these drabbles have absolutely zap-squee to do with each other. They're all standalones.


	3. Misunderstanding

"Who the fuck is that?"

"I don't know. Family of yours?"

"I assumed he was yours."

"Fullmetal, I don't think the genes in my family allow for _that_ particular shade of hair..."

"Don't look at me, Mustang. His hair's better than mine."

Slightly shocked, Mustang blinked over at the smaller alchemist. Fullmetal was currently staring out the window in bemusement. "Beg pardon?"

"How could a man be _that_ pretty? There's got to be a law against it or something."

"Unfortunately, I don't think there is one," Mustang said shakily. He was wracking his brains to remember who this guy was... _Long peach-blonde hair, stunning green eyes, almost too pretty to be a man..._ "Good lord."

"You know him?"

"Yeah... he's the Celestial Alchemist. A relatively recent acquisition for the military, but already proven invaluable. He favors mediation over violence, so he's settled quite a few border conflicts without having to pull even one trick out of his sleeve. I don't think I've ever seen him actually _perform_ alchemy."

Ed shushed him and they both watched in mute fascination as the young man waved to someone, presumably exiting the front door.

That someone being one Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc.

"Well, fuck," Ed said. "If I had known _that_..."

"Fullmetal... I don't think they're related... just keep watching..."

"Guh... whaaa!"

Aaaand the Celestial Alchemist and the Second Lieutenant were hugging. In public. With two _very_ snarky and possessive alchemists watching. And fuming.

The alchemist laughed and plucked the cigarette from Havoc's lips with an ease born of familiarity. _Fume_. Havoc's hand drifted lightly and easily over the man's hair. _Fume_. The man snugged closer to Havoc, fingers winding together.

_Fume_.

"I'm gonna...!" Ed made to storm out of the room, bloody death on his mossy little mind. Roy grabbed him.

"Twit! What if Havoc finds out we've been spying on him? You think Hawkeye is scary, wait till you see Havoc with a shotgun or rifle!"

_That_ made Ed pause and sneak back to the window. "Err... point there."

The alchemist's head rested lightly on Havoc's shoulders, and the pair (couple) strolled calmly out the gate. _Fume_.

Right before they completely left the base, Havoc turned around, a cocky grin on his face. He flashed a thumbs-up at the two fuming alchemists on the third floor.

"What was that all about, Jean?" Adom asked, squeezing his boyfriend's hand.

"Just... rubbing it in."

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Yikes! Totally pointless gag fic. I just wanted to use the phrase 'bloody death on his mossy little mind', and this is what happens. Jealous alchemists.

The Celestial Alchemist isn't a real character. I based him off an original character named Adom Kadmon, and if you've seen/read _Angel Sanctuary_ or know angelic lore, you know who I'm talking about. Vaguely. Except this one (in the origific) is Buddhist. He's a bodhisattva, actually. It's complicated. When I get it all worked out, you can read it on my website.


	4. Possession

The click of a gun being cocked. A cold voice saying: "Get the fuck away from me, you bastard."

A shame, really, that he has to give up his wonderful little game. He _likes_ tormenting the straw-headed desert lion, he _likes_ seeing those lovely blue eyes snap and spark to life in helpless rage.

That's what does it for him. That incoherent hatred and disgust in those eyes, the gradual, ruthless chipping away of such sweet, endearing innocence. It gives him the most incredible feeling of power and dominancy.

Apparently, the blond man pointing a gun at him right now doesn't particularly think so. And so it goes.

He's getting bodily kicked out now and a bullet wings past his ear. Feral blue eyes glare at him, hurt, angry, wrathful, murderous. The lion is hunting, and it won't stop until he's dead. It's stunning and breathtaking in some primal way. It makes him want to get down on his knees and beg to be abused.

Bizarre how such a mild young man can turn into a jaded, cynical automaton. A farmboy turned sniper. The hideous irony makes his mouth water.

Another bullet flies past, kicking up sand right next to his foot. A cold, rough voice warning him.

He retorts that he could blow up his little lion with no effort. All it would take is a touch, a caress.

Like so many other caresses that he had given the lion. All of them received with the utmost disgust.

In a burst of movement that he completely missed, the barrel of the handgun is pressed up against his jaw. A growled warning, sharp teeth bared savagely. This time, it's clear that the lion isn't frightened anymore.

Words like 'murderer' and 'butcher' are hissed into his ear and he shivers at the intimate contact.

He reminds the lion that the alchemist he follows is also a butcher, a murderer.

A very good point, but somehow lacking against the utter conviction the lion has that the Flame Alchemist has honor.

He would _kill_ to hear his lion say that he has some vestige of honor. However, he's sadly lacking in that trait.

No, the accumulation of such power has bent his mind, warped his perceptions. To him, love is dominance, comfort is cold steel, power is death.

The lion cannot understand, will not understand. He's not sure if it's a conscious decision or if it's some ingrained innocence.

Innocence is cuter, but more frustrating.

A bullet gouges through his shoulder. His lion's... no, _Havoc_'s eyes are cold and emotionless.

"I never want to see you again."

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Er. Yeah. -points- Kimbley. And Havoc. Which is a weird paring, and there's no way to make it fluffy, unlike a lot of pairings. Requested by Torii.

Ah, for people reading and reviewing (I know you're out there!), would people like to see a short fic about the Celestial Alchemist? I have several plotbunnies hopping around in my head, and I just want to know if you would like to read about him.


	5. Only Bearable

"You really shouldn't be drinking at a time like this," Havoc said, plonking down next to him and plucking the shotglass out of his droopy hand.

Roy shot a slightly fuzzy glare over at his subordinate. His eternally _cheerful_ subordinate. "Give that back," he demanded thickly.

Havoc sniffed the glass, pulled a face, downed the contents, and gagged. "Holy _hell_ this is nasty!"

"I didn't ask you to drink it," he replied grumpily. _M'mm... he's warm and cheerful, I wonder if he'd let me snuggle_–

"Figured it was the best way to keep you from getting even _more_ hammered than you already are."

"Watch yourself, Lieutenant."

"It's the Elric brothers, isn't it."

He glared over at the happy-go-lucky man. "You're on thin ice, Lieutenant."

Havoc flicked the rim of the glass with a fingernail. "Mustang, at least be kind enough to give us some credit, here. We may not be tactical geniuses like you, but we sure as hell have eyes in our heads. Every time Fullmetal's reports come in, you leave early and come in late the next day. We're all getting worried about you."

"I can take care of myself, Lieutenant."

"Jean. Right here, right now, we're civilians. My name's Jean."

Roy slid a glance sideways. The familiar goody grin had been replaced with a disturbingly serious and grim expression. It made his stomach roll, or maybe that was just the alcohol. "Roy," he managed indistinctly.

Jean nodded. "Good. Now, do you mind telling me why you're sitting here, getting thoroughly smashed?"

"I'm worried about Fullmetal and his brother. They're getting themselves deeper and deeper into trouble and I have no idea how to fish them out of it."

"Don't worry. They'll manage to come out of this mess smelling like roses. They're good at doing that."

"I know they are; that's why I'm not getting drunk every single night. But their reports are... unsettling, at best."

"Yeah, I know." Jean rose, still looking unnaturally serious. "Come on, I have a car round front. We need to get you home."

"Jean?"

"Yeah?"

"Why do you care so much?"

The man's long mouth cracked into a slightly bitter grin. "Why do _you_ care, h'm?"

He blinked. "Why –?" A rather silly smile appeared on his face. "Because those two boys are the closest things I have to little brothers. Why do _you_ care?"

Jean shrugged, gathering up Roy's discarded coat. "I told you that I'd follow you anywhere. Let's just call it my own particular brand of bull-headed loyalty."

The laconic tone and disparaging words snapped him back to some semblance of reality. "That was cruel, Jean."

"I know."

_That_ completely rid him of the alcohol-induced haze. Who'd have thought that the Joker in the deck would be so miserable. "Why?"

Jean shrugged. "What's the use of praising something that isn't there?"

"You're a remarkably good actor, but a remarkably _bad_ liar."

"Beg pardon?"

"You really had me fooled, Jean. I really thought that you were a goofball. You have me convinced that you'd be okay."

Startled blue eyes gazed dumbly at him.

He slipped an arm around the other's waist. "Jean, I'm glad you're here. It makes life so much more bearable. Cheer up, please."

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Roy makes such a graceful drunk. Sorry if it isn't overtly shounen-ai. Requested by Reka and sketchyheart.

It's Jean-angst! I was tired of people writing him like some sort of eternally-cheerful character. He's a soldier, people. He's just as traumatized as Roy, but probably just better at hiding it. No one gets out of a war without scars. It's just that a lot of them aren't visible.


	6. Protection

"Yo."

Cain Fury looked up, emotionally, mentally, and physically exhausted. "How do you _manage_ to be so goddamn _chipper_ all the time!"

The object of his wrath blinked and scratched at a bit of sticking plaster on his cheek. "Fury, it's called _drugs_. Mind altering substances tend to do something like that to people."

"Go somewhere else and be happy. You're impinging on my right to sulk."

No reaction. Didn't expect one really. Morphine _did_ have a tendency to knock soldiers slightly goofy. Even...

Heh. That was funny. The one and only time he had seen Colonel Mustang drugged up... well... it was amusing. And _that_ was an understatement.

He realized he was smirking (which was _not_ something he did in public; that would lead to some very embarrassing questions) when the blonde began to look at him strangely. "Fury? You okay?"

"No. I'm tired."

The taller man stiffly leaned over. "Is that all? You've been to a medic haven't you?"

Fury impatiently slapped his hand away. "_Lieutenant_ Havoc, would you _please_ find somewhere quiet to rest so you don't pass out? Let other people do the worrying for once. I'll be fine, but if you don't rest, you _won't_!"

He knew that had hurt the man. It was obvious. He felt like a monster for doing it to the sweet and uncomplicated ball of unconditional loyalty and worry. But it had to be done. Havoc could make those injuries worse by fussing over soldiers like some ridiculous mother hen.

Wait – why was he trying to justify himself? Havoc was injured. Havoc needed rest. Havoc probably wouldn't rest until all of his soldiers were taken care of or somebody got the nerve up to tie him down to a chair and knock him out cold.

Except there Havoc was, mumbling out an apology and turning away. Damn. Was that a _limp_! Maybe he shouldn't have forced him away.

"Lieutenant Havoc!" Someone else stole Havoc's attention before he could. Jealousy flared up instantaneously. Some tiny portion of his brain (saved over from when he was about _five_) started throwing a temper tantrum. Mine, mine minemineminemineminemine _mine_!

_Dammit_!

Now Fury was pissed. An educational emotion, if quite rare for him. He was usually too mild, to meek, and too rigidly _sane_ to indulge in that emotion. But hell, he had just scraped out of a hellish battle, his crush was injured pretty badly...

Wait. Crush? More like love of his life, as horrible as that cliché may have been. And everyone always wondered why he treated the lieutenant like some stray dog he found scratching at his door.

_MINE_.

Now thoroughly pissed, Fury marched up to Havoc and pulled on the back of his shirt. "Sir? At the risk of being annoyingly repetitive, I must ask that you sit down and stay still. You're going to reopen something like this."

Havoc flashed a grateful smile down at him. "Yessir."

Fury glared over at the Sergeant. "All right, you. I don't want anyone bothering the Second Lieutenant until word comes in from HQ unless it's a dire emergency, got that?"

Slightly startled by the cranky Sergeant Major, the other one nodded and fled.

"You're scary," Havoc commented.

"Only when people keep bugging someone I care about." He shot a sideways glance at the bigger man. "Are you bleeding?"

Havoc blinked. "Er... maybe?"

"Oh, for..." Fury got rather forceful when injuries were involved, anyone could have told Havoc that. Except he never really thought to ask. Silly, silly Havoc.

"Are you still under the influence of the morphine?"

"Huh?"

That was as good as a 'yes' in Fury's book. "Right then, sit down and let me look at your injuries. Field dressings done by you are totally worthless."

"... hey!"

Fury kept talking over the bigger man's emphatic protestations. "Sure, they're good for the moment, but they're so sloppy..."

Havoc yelped when the bandaged peeled off his side.

"... and you're bleeding again! Honestly, can't you take care of yourself?"

"Fury?"

"What!"

"You're scary."

"And you're suffering from bloodloss, so can it!"

Something suspiciously close to a whimper reached his ears as he probed delicately around scarred and lacerated flesh. Truth be told, it was cute coming from such a rough-and-tumble man.

"Sorry."

"Ow!"

"I said I was sorry."

"Fury, you're being mean to me on purpose, I know it."

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"You little sneak! You did that on purpose!"

"Huh?" Havoc's face split into a grin. "Oh. That. Well, it's easier for me to ignore when someone's poking at me if I'm distracted." He reached out to ruffle Fury's hair.

"Jean, just take it easy, okay? I'm not fond of the idea of losing you."

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

looks around- Did someone say cotton candy? Yeesh, it's fluffy AND sappy. Hence, the slightly facetious nomen of 'cotton candy'. Or, at least, it's fluffy and sappy in my opinion. Which means I'd probably die from a sugar-induced coma if I ever encountered real sap.

Written with respect and love towards Spades 44 because the last Havoc/Fury drabble was a true gem. Sweet, sad, bitter. Highly recommended. (love)


	7. One Sided Attraction

You know you're in trouble right now. You have military on your tail and you've got other... unsavory elements nearby. There are two options open: one, run like hell; two, give yourself up.

You quash your pride and take off.

"Don't go after him!"

Maybe those damn alchemists are smarter than you give them credit for.

You look back and catch a glimpse of cool blue eyes. Dear God...

†

_You lay shivering under a pile of corpses. It's so hot and the air is so thick under them that you can't breathe. Not that you would particularly _want_ to. Black combat boots are eerily close and voices are eerily clear._

_"Any survivors?"_

_"Not that I know of, sir. The heavy infantry appears to have done their job well."_

_You hear a sharp crack. "Don't take that arch tone with me, Lieutenant! Just –"_

_"Gentlemen, please." A third voice, choked with an emotion it's clearly uncomfortable with. "Let Lieutenant Havoc continue with his duty, Gran."_

_"He insulted –!"_

_"Stand down, Major. We're in a war, not an officer's club!" You hear disgruntled mumbling, then the third voice says sharply, "Stand _down_ Major. If I have to write your for abuse of your position, I will."_

_You tense. You fear you will be found. You're not afraid of death, just afraid of disgracing your name even further. Your brother was bad enough. This would just make it ten times worse. You do have your pride, after all._

_The bodies covering you are shifted one by one and you take a grateful breath of air. It's cool and sharp, with the bitter tang of smoke. Not the smoke of burning houses and people (even though you can vaguely smell it in the background) but the more comforting scent of a lit cigarette. You crack open one eye with a morbid curiosity to see who will be the one to kill you._

_And encounter beautiful blue eyes. You'd never seen blue eyes before the war, and these are simply breathtaking. They're vaguely purple now, due to the fading remnants of the sunset, but you can tell they're the color of the sky in high summer._

_The eyes blink. "There you are. You look a mess."_

_Huh?_

_"Could have sworn that I got you dead-on with a bullet." He rolls the remaining bodies off and crouches down next to you. "Oh, well. Gotta hand it to you, you're good at survival."_

_He offers you a hand. "Am I your prisoner?" you ask, unsure._

_"No, I'm helping you escape. Just on principle, you know."_

Now_ you're confused. "What in...?"_

_The blue eyes turn serious for a second. "You still have a decent shot at living, There's a refugee caravan heading further west soon. It's all noncombatants, so the military's deciding to let it go. I want you with that caravan."_

_You realize with a nasty shock that the soldier isn't that much older than you, and maybe even a little bit younger. "Why are you helping me?"_

_His hands start checking you for injuries. "We both know this is a stupid war. Your people haven't done anything to us. I don't even know why we're here." He grins sidelong at you. "Just because I'm a soldier doesn't mean that I have to like killing people. I'm not particularly fond of watching people's skulls shatter."_

_"Then why are you here? If everything you say is true, then you _shouldn't_ be here!"_

_"The draft. I was the right age, healthy, and I have a steady hand." Blue eyes flick up to yours. "You feel okay?"_

_"Yes, I'm fine –"_

_"Eat some of this." He proffers some trench food._

_You take it, the feel of his fingers sparking fire along your nerves. How could that be possible? You've only just met him, he's an enemy, he's killed your people, you'll never see him again, and he's a man!_

_"You'll have to hurry. The night patrols are starting in fifteen minutes. You'll need to be well out of sight by then and you can't make a sound. Don't get yourself killed."_

_He helps you up, his hand warm and calloused. You shiver at the contact._

_Damn. Now he's going to be in your dreams for months._

_"Get going. And don't forget to return the favor if you ever find someone in trouble like this."_

_You nod and flee._

†

It's the same blue eyes – not good at all. You've been dreaming about those eyes for years on end now... and now you've seen him again. He looks no different. Damn.

He's watching you, with not a flicker of recognition in those cool sapphire orbs.

His eyes are even prettier in daylight.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Written for Torii. Sorry it took so long, hun. I have a BIG backlog of crap I need to get done by this Wednesday.

Sorry for the Scar OC, but it was the only way I could manage to make this work. Mea culpa and all that jazz.

... -looks around- Where are all my reviewers? I feel lost and lonely without you wonderful people.


	8. Worth Something

"Happy New Year!" The office party becomes one huge jumble of arms, legs, hugs, kisses, and alcohol.

Unfortunately, Jean Havoc is in a corner. Being ignored.

But hey, he's used to it. He's used to coming in second-to-dead-last. Only Breda has worse luck than he does, but the red-head had the sense to stay home from the party.

Jean's seriously contemplating skipping out on the whole mess. Every single year, he forgets how much he dislikes these parties.

He snugs himself back further into his chair, watching the festivities. Mustang isn't _quite_ drunk, but he's certainly rosy-cheeked. Farman was flirting with a pretty little part-time nurse (what was with that man and his brunettes?), Fury is getting worked over pretty good by adoring military fangirls and fanboys. Poor kid. He looks pretty desperate.

But he doesn't want to venture out into the pile of human-ness. Hot, sweaty, messy, an intimate contact with total strangers. He just _knows_ that when he gets home he's going to be showering obsessively.

He takes a micro-sip from his glass, watching as Schezka gets kissed by Mustang. The sweet little bookworm flares pink with embarrassment.

_Ch'. Quit proving you're straight, Mustang. You're Fullmetal's bitch and you know it._ Now that's a thought. He could venture out to maybe flirt a bit with the girl... Bleh. That would require moving, and that's the last thing on his list right now.

Honestly? Being single _sucked._ It had always sucked. Since the dawn of time, it sucked.

He wiggled a bit in his chair, trying to restore circulation in his butt. Having a bony ass was _never_ a good thing.

Oh, he's griping again, isn't he? H'm... he needed to fix that.

He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, selects one, and lights up.

"You shouldn't be smoking."

"You shouldn't be drinking."

Liza Hawkeye insinuates down into the seat next to him, definitely looking the little worse for wear. "Don't remind me. The whole inhibitions-will-be-lowered and the hangover... ugh, I hate hangovers."

"Your own silly fault," he comments, yawning around his cigarette.

"M'mm... but lowered inhibitions do have one perk," she murmurs drowsily. "I can do this and no on will tease me..."

"Hawkeye, no one has the balls to tease you anytime."

She rests her head in the curve of his neck and shoulder, snuggling closer. "It's a convenient excuse for me, all right?"

"All right, then. Suit yourself."

She affectionately kisses the side of his neck. "M'm... you taste good. Are you busy this weekend?"

"Nope."

Okay, so maybe the party was worth _something._

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Written for SpinningAvia, because the request is right there in the reviews page. -points- See?

I'm not particularly a Jean x Roy fan. I'm just a Jean fan, and I love writing for FMA, because the characters are so much fun to torment. (bwahahaha)

the phrase 'Fullmetal's bitch' stolen from Spade 44's Havoc and Fury Drabbles. Because she has sincere love on my part.

And yes, your butt _can_ fall asleep, just like any other limb. It happened to me while I was writing this.


	9. Redemption for a Fallen Angel

Gentle fingers trailed over his forehead and scalp, gently soothing away tension. "Jean, you really shouldn't be this tense. It's not healthy."

He captured the roving hands, holding them tightly beneath his chin. "I know. I'm trying to, believe me. It just sucks trying to adjust to a civilian life after you've spent years killing people and being sneaky."

"That's not all of it, is it?" The hands began to work at his neck, pushing ruthlessly at knotted muscles.

Jean sighed explosively. "No, it's not! I have all these girls squealing and cooing over me, thinking I'm a great hero because I managed to come back in one piece. They don't understand about how many people I had to _kill_ to keep myself alive. They don't understand about how accusing dead eyes are when half the skull's missing."

"You're here so they don't have to understand," the man behind him reminded gently. "That's why you joined up, right? To keep everyone innocent. The epitome of a fallen angel: you damn yourself in an effort to keep everyone pure. In its own way, it's admirable."

"You're mocking me, Maes."

"No, I'm not. I'm sorry if it sounded like that, but someone needs to remind you that you can't save everyone. You need to save yourself, not the world."

"That doesn't mean I can't try."

Nimble fingers worked down his arms, smoothing muscle. "Jean, you're going to burn yourself out at this rate. That façade of yours won't last too much longer. As it is, you're exhausted. You can't keep pretending."

"This may be a shocker, but I'm honestly not pretending. You should know by now that I'm a lousy actor..."

Maes' forehead rested against the back of his head. "Jean, just promise me that you'll take the time to relax and try to forget..."

"I don't want to forget. I'm stubborn that way."

He couldn't help laughing at the blonde. "Stubborn indeed. Roy Mustang is one lucky man."

"H'm?"

His fingers began working out the tension in big, rough hands. "With your stubborn loyalty, Mustang _will_ be able to pull off becoming Führer. You're too proud to die for anyone, yet you're willing to die for Mustang..." He pressed a gentle kiss to the back of Jean's neck. "I envy him."

"I'm sorry, Maes."

"Don't be. You need him just as much as he needs you. There's no shame in that..."

No... none at all. No shame in dying for a man that is determined to make the world better one step at a time. Two fallen angels, and no Heaven to return to.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Wow. Fear my psudo-angst! I know it's short, but things have been hectic, what with papers, musical practices, and just a general feeling of 'yuk!' pervading my life.

Written for sketchyheart, because she shares my Havoc love.


	10. Category

Havoc yawned cavernously. He was tired, grouchy, and damn it if it wasn't raining. The railway cars were probably down again to boot, so he'd have to walk home. In the pouring rain. _Without_ an umbrella.

He wondered if Cain wouldn't mind letting a rather wet stray shack up for the night.

Echoing his thoughts, Sergeant Major Cain Fury tugged on the back of his jacket. "I'm going to be a little late tonight, Lieutenant. You still have the spare key?"

"'Course I do," he snorted. "I may be a blonde, but I don't lose keys."

Cain just blushed a little and smiled shyly.

They were the worst-kept secret in the entire unit.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

He ambled out into the hallway, nodding placidly at a rather flustered (... the hell?) Mustang being figuratively chased by one Lieutenant Hawkeye.

Probably getting on his case again about those mysterious lilies that keep showing up on her desk.

Havoc felt smug. He'd always put lavender on Cain's desk. It had taken the poor guy two _months_ to figure that one out.

'Course, Hawkeye got that in a matter of minutes. She actually had confronted him, demanding why he was putting flowers that molted their buds on Cain's desk.

He'd just given her a trademark grin and she put two and two together.

Smart woman.

Which probably explained why she was yelling about 'wasting military funds for a grade-school crush'.

She was harsh on herself.

He ambled farther, humming to himself. Maybe he'd be nice for once and make Cain a cup of tea instead of coffee. He'd like that.

Bleah. Now it was a thunderstorm. _Wonderful_.

He got to Cain's place (a family brownstone that the Furies (ha ha?) had had for years) and inserted the key and twisted sharply. The mahogany door actually hated him – surprising, considering it was an inanimate object – so he had to be extra forceful. Luckily, the neighbors were well acquainted with the eternally cheerful blonde sneaking into little Fury's house.

He filled the teapot and set it on to boil, getting out a tin of tea and a tin of instant coffee. He wasn't fond of the metallic taste of tinned coffee, but he was used to it by now.

Fresh-made, fresh-ground coffee was ranked up in the 'luxurious, death-by-orgasm' category.

He was still faintly surprised that he even _had_ such a category.

Well. Not really. He was just surprised that anything besides Cain was in that category.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Lilies mean purity and platonic love. Lavender means 'sweet dreams'.

Am I the only one that finds this amusing?

This is a 'yes I'm still alive and writing Jeanslash' type fic. The Havoc/Broche fic... is... well... bust for now. It'll be up next week, promise. Please don't eat me, sketchyheart.

This is for Spades 44, because Cain lovin' is m'm, m'm, good.

... don't shoot me. Please.


	11. It Isn't Worth It

In all honesty, Jean Havoc is too good-natured to really hurt anyone. Sure, he's a soldier and an incorrigible prankster, but he'd never, _ever_ hurt someone he cared about with any depth.

Which is why she, Liza Hawkeye, is deeply confused and worried. She thinks at first that it's some sort of mutant doppleganger (yes, they do exist, dammit!), but the sight of a grim Havoc cracking a joke to make little Fury feel better allays her fears. And brings up new ones.

So something happened, past tense. What?

She starts by doing a little scouting of everyone who can possibly be even remotely connected to the man.

She knows that Mustang is attracted and possessive of the scruffy blonde man. Very attracted, very possessive. She knows that there's a third tag on Jean's chain that no-one else has: _Havoc, Property of Roy Mustang_.

It was cute.

But Mustang doesn't look like he just got out of a lover's tiff with Havoc – if that was the case, the Colonel would probably be an interesting shade of... pink. It had happened before, and she had nearly killed herself trying not to laugh.

There's Farman – but she knows for a fact that he's got a girl in Accounting that is absolutely head-over-heels for him.

Fury... is so sexless that she doubts that _anyone_ would look at him twice.

Same for Breda.

Ross? A woman. Usually Jean doesn't go into such deep depression over a mere _woman_. Besides, she thinks Ross might be gay.

Urk. That's a thought to kill her mind.

So. So? So what? The supreme brat of the unit is off his feed. So what?

_Then_ she catches sight of a forlorn-looking Broche.

_Oh, dear god. This has _got_ to be a bad nightmare_.

"Broche!"

The blonde looks up. "Hawkeye," he says, dispensing with titles, ranks, and formalities.

"Something wrong?"

"M'm. Nothing."

"Don't lie to me."

"We'll get over it."

"What's wrong?"

"I –"

"Don't make me order you to."

"I – well..." Broche looked at his hands. "Are all of Mustang's staff so firmly under his thumb that no one can get them to do anything?"

"It might appear that way to some people, yes. He needs us."

"... needs?"

"There are some things that he cannot accomplish alone," she says slowly, beginning to catch on. "Colonel Mustang needs support and care. His is not an easy road."

"So you're all on tight leashes?"

She winces inwardly at the bitterness. "Yes, I suppose one could say that."

"And he keeps one tighter than the others."

It isn't a question.

"There isn't any force being used. It's purely voluntary."

"'Voluntary'?"

"Don't devalue loyalty."

"That isn't loyalty...!"

"Then perhaps you shouldn't fight it. Emotions are rarely a rational thing, and should not be trifled with. I suggest letting him go. It's hurting him."

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

The pink comment was stolen directly from MoMo4's "Side Effects" which involves pr0n, 'heiwa no jutsu', a prankster!Iruka, and a pink!Kakashi. Interested yet? Good. Go read it.

Another one of those 'pay attention, I'm alive!' fics. Written quickly (and probably badly) for sketchyheart. My apologies, kiddo.


	12. Murphey's Law of Disasters

Jean Havoc hummed idly to himself, working on the underbelly of one of the several hundred fleet cars of the Central City Military Base. It was a good day, a cool, sunny, clear Saturday that was just... _perfect_.

And, as dictated by a subclause of Murphey's Law, something bad was going to ruin his day. Last week, it had happened roundabout noon, but today was there and past.

"_Havoc_!"

"Boss." Jean cursed silently, opening up the valve to drain the oil. "What's up?"

"Nothing much. I just came to talk."

"Uh-huh." He let the oil flow, stepping out from under the car and wiping his grimy hands on a threadbare and slightly greasy rag. "If you want advice –"

"I already spoke to Sergeant Major Fury. He said to come talk to you."

_Just. Bloody. Wonderful_. He knew the kid didn't have exactly a stable, loving family, or much of a family at all – his younger brother was nothing more than an armor-bound soul and totally oblivious in his own way to Elric's problems – but...

"Jean, please."

"Yeah, okay. You mind if I keep working? I'm almost done here." His hand groped around for the valve's cap. Finding it, he screwed it back on.

"No, I don't mind at all." Major Elric looked at his white-gloved hands, grimaced at the familiar soft hiss of his right arm.

"What do you need?"

"Well..."

"Ed..."

"I don't really know what to say. I guess it's the usual: you're mopey, Fury's mopey, and Colonel Mustang is a smug bastard because he's going out with some bimbo."

Jean laughed, lowering the car back down onto the pavement. "Is that it? You're having girl trouble?"

Ed looked up sharply. "No! I don't..."

"You can't be sexless for your entire life," he pointed out prosaically. He grabbed the can of oil, pouring it into the car. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Ed wincing at the rhythmic pulsing gurgles. _Repression, much_? "Bad as this may sound, there does come a point where you need sex, plain and simple."

"Does it always have to be a girl?" Ed asked in a small voice, sounding more like the seventeen-year-old boy he really was than the tiny terror of the entire Central Military force.

Jean blinked. "Er... no. Not always. It's not always easy with men... but there are ways to get around that..." _Dear God, help me! I'm giving my surperior officer a talk about sex!_

"Have you ever... been with a man?" Ed looked everywhere possible, except straight at Jean's eyes. Everywhere including his tight black undershirt, his hands, his boots, and below his belt.

Jean flushed bright, incendiary red, embarrassed as hell at both the question and Ed's wandering eyes. Playboy second only to Colonel Mustang he might have been, but... "Christ, Ed! You don't just casually ask something like that out of the blue!"

"Well, why not? I'm allowed to be curious, aren't I?"

The tall lieutenant sighed, lighting a cigarette with a shaky hand. "Look, Boss –"

"Well?"

"Yeah. I'm military. Weird shit happens. Honestly, I don't really care."

"But that's –!"

"Immoral? No less than sleeping around for pleasure. It's the exact same principle, you know."

Ed stared at him, mouth agape. "You mean it's normal to like men?"

"Sort-of. Love is love and sex is sex, no matter who it is you're with. Just don't get the two mixed up."

"Well..." Ed appeared to be deep in thought, his eyes stuck somewhere in the vicinity of Jean's chest. Descreetly, Jean moved out of the kid's line-of-sight. Something visibly clicked in the boy's head. "Want to get some coffee after you're done?"

A thousand things jumbled together in his head, but all that came out was a rather weak, "Sure."

Ed's face lit up like an angel's. "Really?"

"I said 'yes,' didn't I? You want to walk?"

"Yeah." Ed's right hand briefly touched his. "Thanks, Jean."

"Sure thing, Boss."

So maybe Murphey's Law didn't apply to this particular Saturday.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Um. Originally titled "**The Birds and the Bees, Jean Havoc Style**". This was originally written for my creative writing class, and _boy_ the teacher liked it. Sorry about the length, it hit three pages in Appleworks doublespaced. I got an extension on the piece because of the sheer volume of embarrassment I had.

Oddly enough, this was supposed to be a Havoc/Fury. I guess it didn't turn out at all to what I was intending.

Sorry for massive lack of updates, ya'll, but I was massively busy for a period of about two weeks in there, so you can't exactly blame me. As it is, I'm updating before I leave for classes...


	13. Ache

He was out, down, the word going fuzzy. Brief flares of aching pain crept stealthily through his body. He could almost shut out the pain, but it lay coiled like a serpent around his spine, insistent and unwavering.

He was still on his knees, a condition he found vaguely amusing. He had already tried moving, which had failed miserably. There was a big hole in his side, and he was surprised that he was still conscious.

Well, fuck.

He slumped back, boneless from bloodloss. So much for staying straight... ye gods, sand was irritating.

"Hey."

He cracked open a gummy eyelid, almost painfully slow. A rather disturbed-looking soldier stared down at him. "Major, sir, this one's still alive!"

"Then go get help, man!" a smooth voice snapped, slightly raw from worry and anger. "Don't just let a soldier lie bleeding!" The solder ran off, clearly terrified.

Oh, _fuck_.

"You stupid ass," the major hissed from on high. "You _promised_ me you'd come back alive!"

"Don't jump to conclusions," he managed to rasp out painfully.

"Have you seen the hole in your side? You can't last long like that."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mustang."

"Jean, you're bleeding out. You won't be able – no, don't talk, you can't waste your energy." Mustang knelt, pressing his gloved hand against the wound to help staunch the massive amounts of blood.

"Stop!" he gasped, nauseated by the pain. "Your gloves... too rough..." He felt like he was going to pass out... but the world remained oddly clear and sharp, even if it _was_ in shades of grey.

Soddit.

"Jean..." Worry etched Mustang's voice, etched his face. "How did this happen? You're a sniper, not general infantry."

"Friendly fire," he managed. "Roy, don't move me... hurts..."

"You want water?" Mustang asked in the subdued voice that men used in the morgue.

"Please."

There was a disconcerting sensation of being fed water, then water being poured over his still-aching side.

Roy hissed for him. "Well, it's not as big as I thought it was, but you still lost a lot of blood, and it's still pretty deep."

"Is anything falling out?"

Mustang _stared_ at him for a minute, mouth agape. "Are... you...?"

"Joking? Yes..." he coughed a bit, somehow contorting around the tear in his side so the sand wouldn't irritate it. He whimpered.

Roy yanked off his gloves, pressing the cool tips to his forehead. "You have a fever, Jean. Jean? _Jean_!"

Jean Havoc lay slumped on his side, head pillowed in Mustang's lap, hardly breathing, hardly moving.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

looks around- Jeeze, what do I have to do to get some responses around here? Are you all dead? -poutpout-

I know I haven't really been updating, but that doesn't mean you can slack off and leave me hanging... -poutpoutpout-

'sides, I'm running out of ideas, so you have something you want written, just give me a holler. If you've suggested something that I _still_ haven't written, then suggest again. I'm so scatterbrained that if I don't write it within a week of suggestion then I forget. Sorry...


	14. The Muffin Alchemist

"Strawberries?" Cain looked over to see Jean crawl forlornly into the kitchen. "I smell strawberries."

"We're having strawberry muffins for breakfast," Cain said, trying not to laugh at the sleepy blonde man. "As a treat for the day off."

"Strawberries..." Jean reached over to grab a handful.

Cain let him. Jean possessed an absolutely bizarre passion for the things, and he was loath to deny his spiky-headed idiot of a lover such a treat.

He adored spoiling Jean silly.

The man in question slunk out of the kitchen, nibbling on his pilfered sweets.

"Don't spoil your appetite," Cain said, almost automatically. "If you do, I'll be ticked."

"I won't." Jean's voice drifted in from the library. "Did I know we had a copy of _Faustus_?"

"It's your book, Jean. You'd have better known we have it."

"It's not a book," the blonde said petulantly, wandering back into the kitchen and affectionately kissing the top of his head. "It's a play."

"And this coming from the man that calls a salamander a lizard?"

"Technically, a salamander _is_ a lizard."

"Jean!"

"You know I'm right."

Growling, Cain whipped around and shoved a particularly fat strawberry into Jean's mouth. "Shut up."

"M'mph!" Jean bit down, chewing with every sign of enjoyment.

"At this rate, I'll never get the muffins done!"

Jean waved the remaining half of his strawberry. "Yes, you will. Even if I pester you all day, you'll still somehow manage to pull off a dozen perfect muffins." Jean grinned mischievously. "Muffin Alchemist."

"_Jean_." That was the Warning Tone. Cain wasn't exactly _annoyed_. Just mildly exasperated.

The taller blonde looped an arm around his shoulder. "I'm just teasing."

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

... no energy for an author's note.


	15. Blind

Havoc irritably pushed up his glasses. The stupid things kept sliding down his nose, and that made reading the paper a headache. He sort-of liked the glasses (they actually had gotten him a few dates), but Fury had said they made him look too much like Hughes. That he didn't particularly mind, he just got tired and headachy when he had to squint and adjust his eyesight for reading fine print.

Hell, he had to squint to see any kind of up-close print. He could nail any target dead-center long-distance, but he had to fucking wear glasses to read the newspaper!

He growled, taking the things off and gripping them in his teeth. He slowly rubbed at his temples, willing the headache to go away. The harder he willed, the more fiercely his head hurt.

_Damn, damn, and blast._ He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his messy mop. He needed to get that cut...

Squinting, he picked up the paper, trying to scan the obituaries. _Shit_. He slid his glasses back onto his nose, pushing them up to his eyes. His hands groped around for a lighter and some cigarettes.

"Havoc, I need –" The authoritative voice of Roy Mustang choked off with a most undignified gurgle.

The glasses slid down. Again. He looked over the frames at the rather frozen Colonel, blue eyes shading ever so slightly to green in annoyance. "Can I help you?"

Mustang's mouth worked silently for a moment before he recovered magnificently. "Lieutenant, I need you to type up a report for me. Sergeant Major Fury is out today and I need you to take up his workload, at least for today."

Havoc glared over his glasses. "You're kidding, right?"

"Not in the slightest," Mustang said smoothly. "The others are already taking up most of the slack in the Administrative Department, and you're the only one left."

Havoc snorted, lighting his cigarette. "Throw the other one." He folded the paper neatly, tossing onto the pile. "You're saying the entire Department's out?" His chair tilted back, and he lazily pushed his glasses up a bit.

Mustang blinked rapidly. "Most of them, yes."

"Got something in your eye?" Havoc said lightly, reaching over to tap the ashes off the tip of his cigarette. "You really should take more care –"

"When did you get glasses?" Ed yelped, peering around the Frozen Lump That Was Roy.

"I've had them for years," he said mildly. "Can't see worth a damn, excuse me Colonel, until I'm a yard or two out. Then..."

"Wow. Can I see?"

"Jesus, Ed, you're going to transmute them into a snail or something and then I'll be blind!"

Ed pushed past the still-immobile Colonel, holding out his hand. "Gimmie."

That snapped Mustang into motion. "Fullmetal, don't you have something else to do besides harass my subordinate?"

The small teen snapped a glare over to the Colonel. "Look, you..."

Havoc sighed. He reached out for the newspaper, guessing that he'd be able to at least finish the Op/Ed page before the two alchemists ran out of steam. He pushed his glasses up again.

Mustang finally kicked Ed bodily from the office a half-hour later, muttering something vindictive about 'fuzzy-topped dandelions.' Havoc hid a laugh in the rustling of his newspaper.

"And _you_."

_That_ froze him solid. "Yes, sir?"

Mustang stalked over. "You should _not_ be encouraging him."

"Well, I wasn't the one that was standing there, baiting him for a half-hour in _my_ office."

Mustang hissed in annoyance.

Havoc just ignored him. Until Mustang was right smack dab in front of him and his gloved hands were reaching out to touch –

The glasses slid of his nose and most of the near world turned very, very fuzzy. He nearly went crosseyed trying to focus on a featureless swath of color –

_Oh, my_.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Thanks to C4PyroGirl for this one. I'm trying to work on a sequel for 'Ache', Torii, but that's being written for my CW class, so it's going to be up slightly later than you (or I) want it to be. Arach, I promise that I'll get your suggestion written (or one of them, at any rate). A fic like that has to at least semi-planned, so it may take a while.

Thanks all of you guys for hanging in there with me. Life's been a bitch recently, and I'm trying to keep the fics going and my sanity somewhat stable.

Um... there's gonna be a special treat with the next drabble I post, so keep your eyes peeled for it!


	16. Birthday

Jean yawned, winding himself deeper into the sheets. A cat that had adopted him a few weeks back sighed and grumbled, scootching closer into the curve of his back.

God, getting old sucked.

"Oy."

Dear god, not now, not today, not here. He groaned, scrunching down into the bed.

"Jean, playing dead will _not_ prevent me from seeing you. Wake up, it's your birthday."

Like he didn't know that. "Myah, go 'way."

He just _knew_ Ed was rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Jean! Wake up, moron. It's your thirty-second birthday, and I want to celebrate!"

He lifted his sleep-tousled head. "Look, mush-for-brains, you weren't nearly this cheerful on your twentieth birthday, so I advise you to shove it. Either that or go back to bed."

"You're no fun."

"I'll cut off that rattail that you like calling a braid if you don't bloody well shut up!"

"You're grumpy without your coffee." Ed flicked his waist-length plait over his shoulder vainly. "Lucky for you I made some."

"Ed, what part of 'sod off' don't you understand?"

"The part that involves me leaving the room while you're still grumpy. Why are you so ticked about your birthday, anyway?"

"I'm getting OLD!"

Ed blinked. "That's a stupid reason."

"Just 'cause you're young and think you're immortal doesn't mean that I'm either of those."

"But, Jean, you're only thirty-three! You haven't even hit halfway through your life!"

"Says who?"

"Er..." Ed hit epiphany. Havoc could almost hear it. "Is this those 'military glums' that Fury was talking about?"

"My god, he can be taught." He wound deeper into the knot of sheets. "Now, do me a favor and _go away._"

"That was mean." Ed commented, putting the mug down. "Come on, you sleepy person!"

"Nnyergh, don't wanna..." The cat climbed sullenly over his shoulder, glared yellowly at Ed, then slid off the bed.

"Jean..."

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Crap ending, I know. I'm tired, and I'm swamped with crap to do. Again, it's a grace posting.


	17. And Counting

A week and counting.

A _week_.

Nobody takes a week to heal... if they spend more than a few days in a coma, the medical unit writes them off as a lost cause.

The army has neither the time nor the resources to keep terminal patients alive. Maybe at the beginning, yes, but the war has drastically sapped their abilities to cope.

Only by the saving grace of three petitions written by army officers and signed by three hundred separate NCOs, enlisted men, _and_ officers is Staff Sergeant Jean Havoc still breathing.

If Jean ever found out, he would laugh at me.

The trick is to get the man awake so he _can_ find out.

But he's just laying there in the medic station behind lines, breathing peacefully and completely dead to the world.

_A wound that minor, relatively speaking, shouldn't have done that much damage_

_It's a concussion – he _did_ fall out of a building afterwards_

_Wherever that fucking sod is that did this to him, I'll find him and give him –_

_Did you hear? Mustang hunted him down and dealt with him personally. There was an investigation and it was Private ––––'s third time of shooting a friendly soldier_

_I hope that bastard got what he deserved_

I'm not precisely sure why Jean's so popular among the enlisted men. The NCOs I can understand – he's one of them, and he's been in this war from the beginning. If he survives, he'll get a full promotion to Lieutenant, with the State's blessing.

But the men... Jean's a sniper, and by definition, he works alone. He has no squad, even officially. However, he _is_ an incorrigible prankster, a damn decent gambler, and an all-around nice man. Even if he's so deadpan that one can't tell his emotion by looking at or hearing him.

And he's _mine_. I'll threaten every single soldier and officer in this bloated mess of an army to keep him alive. Maes says that I'm taking the loyalty of my soldiers too seriously... but this time around it isn't loyalty. It's something that even I don't understand...

One week and counting...

Two weeks and counting...

Three weeks and counting...

This is becoming nightmarish. They say that he's brain-dead, that they can't save him. I want to threaten them, shake Jean awake like I did back in the school dormitories, just to prove that he's alive. But...

"Hey. Got a cigarette?"

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

It's been exactly two months since I started this. And BOY, I'm slow in updating. Sorry, y'all. Usually, I'd have at least forty drabbles up.

Yes, this is a continuation of 'Ache'. You can draw your own conclusions about the ending.

I keep saying this, but if anyone out there has any other suggestions for me (I'm only working on one other drabble right now, and I don't want it to be the last) PLEASE, give them to me. I'm willing to write pretty much whatever.


	18. Payback

5:29:57

Three.

Two.

One.

He was off duty.

Three (wait, four) minutes of intensive thinking had brought him to the inescapable conclusion that he really did owe Mustang this for two reasons.

One: Because Roy fed him. Strays are loyal to people who feed them.

Two: Because he had, in fact, been a total brat to the man. Being surprised or shocked was no excuse for that one. Mustang was so goddamn fragile sometimes and... well... Havoc had the sneaking feeling that the man had just broken.

_Goddammit._

He flicked the cigarette away. Now or never...

He was knocking politely on Roy's door before he even realized it.

"'S open..."

"Good, because I think breaking and entering is specifically cited as being illegal," Havoc said easily, letting himself in. "And I doubt that even my roguish charm'll get me out of that one."

Mustang spun around, shock clearly written on his face. "Ha-havoc?" he squeaked, a precious moment of vulnerability before the ice prince mask slammed down again. "You were supposed to leave."

"H'm. I'm off-duty, so you can't order me around, even indirectly."

"It's still my house, so get the hell out."

"Nothing doing, Mustang. I've known you too long to be intimidated by a facsimile of your grouchy colonel persona. I owe you one."

"Doesn't matter."

"Doesn't it? How odd, I distinctly remember you saying that you wanted it."

"It's no use if you're not willing!" Black eyes flashed. Roy was angry, backed into a corner, his weakness so very open. But he wasn't down yet. "You don't give a damn if someone actually _cares_ about you!"

Havoc shrugged, not nearly as casual as he appeared to be. "Sorry. I was trying to save your reputation." Not that bad of a lie. Let's see if he could make it slightly more plausible... "No one that _I_ care about is going down because of me."

Roy gaped, the mask completely shattered. Havoc couldn't help but feel a bit smug; for once in his life, he had fixed something he had broken.

Two seconds later, he had a shaking, limp young man draped artlessly over him, hugging tightly and desperately. "You weren't supposed to stay," Roy mumbled into his shoulder. "You were supposed to go away and never come back."

"I told you," he said gently. "I owe you. But this isn't about that anymore is it?"

"No. It... it's not. I don't know..."

10:26:45

Roy was asleep in his lap, his mug of tea forgotten. The fire roared cheerily, warming the two men.

Havoc leaned back with a sigh. Four more minutes, and he'd wake Roy up to drag the man to bed. The man wasn't quite ready for anything intimate, neither of them were. But just being able to hold the defenseless and lonely man was enough. More than enough.

Payback times a thousand.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Written as a sequel to Spades 44's drabble Four Minutes. She wanted a fic of mine where nobody was chasing after Havoc and... she got this. Hurrah.


	19. Clown Comedian Jester Fool

_Morning. Get up, get food, get into uniform, get to work._

_Paste a stupid smile on your face._

_Pretend that nothing matters._

_Pretend you're not lying._

•••

He was in a war infinitely worse than the Ishvar war, infinitely more wearing and crushing. It was a war of wills, to see who would break first. It was stupid and petty, but Mustang doesn't want a breakable soldier. He needs Havoc too much to have him shatter at grueling mental monotony and cruelty. He already has a faithful cat (not dog – Hawkeye is too strong and too much in command of herself to be a dog) in the only woman in their group. He needs someone made out of steel, someone who can pretend they're not hurting.

He's the king, and he already has his queen, jack, and ace. What he needs is the Joker in the deck, a wildcard who would make the game if possessed. He needs someone who can pretend that everything's okay even if it's not. He needs a clown, a comedian, a jester, a fool.

It disturbs Havoc that he can see that much. What disturbs him more is where he can see this going. Things are nearing the end, and he's aware of what's at stake and where's it's going to end.

And if he isn't at Mustang's side for it, all the better.

He's the jester, the fool, the Joker. He's the duckblind for a man that's willing to risk everything, including that which is nearest and dearest to his heart. He's a double-faced card, drawing the attention away from the others, flashy enough to distract but strong enough to win on his own.

But if Mustang plays his cards right, he won't have to win on his own.

••••••

Sorry for the lack of updates recently. I've been busy, and then I got smacked with a terrible case of writer's block. (Rebound doesn't count, because that's collaboration and there's TWO driving forces on that)

This is probably going to be my last update for a while. I leave on Friday the eighth to go to Cleveland for a day. Then we're going to NYC until the following... Tuesday/Wednesday. Hang out a bit in Gettysburg, then get home in time for Ikasucon 2005. If any of my readers are going to be there, I'll be dressed like Izumi Curtis with an Ed so come say hey if you can.


End file.
